


What We Call Heroes

by AK_Vintage



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Angst, But mostly fluff, F/M, Fluff, Rumbelle Christmas in July, Storybrooke, rcij
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-23
Updated: 2016-07-23
Packaged: 2018-07-26 05:01:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7561426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AK_Vintage/pseuds/AK_Vintage
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>RCIJ 2016 gift for notalwayslate!</p><p>The residents of the sleepy town of Storybrooke, Maine have grown accustomed to their odd little librarian, Belle French, spending her days with her nose buried in a book. To the average passerby, they seem a never-ending stream, with new ones cropping up every other day or so, but to the close observer, there is one particular book that makes a frequent reappearance in her lineup. Non-magical Storybrooke AU.</p><p>Original prompt: "The book wasn't worth stealing."</p>
            </blockquote>





	What We Call Heroes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [notalwayslate](https://archiveofourown.org/users/notalwayslate/gifts).



> Merry Christmas in July to my lovely giftee, notalwayslate. I hope you enjoy it!

Reese Gold had many flaws. He was ruthless, he knew. Cunning. Overly ambitious. Cold and calculating, proud and aloof. He was an exacting businessman, a demanding landlord, an aggressive lawyer, and a downright unfriendly neighbor. But for all the many flaws that had tainted and twisted his character throughout his lifetime, there was, perhaps, one trait for which he could never be faulted.

Reese Gold was _observant_.

The early hardships he had experienced as a child growing up in the slums of Glasgow had taught him how to read a face and body the way other men read street signs. He needn’t speak to a person to gain the measure of them – he could see it all in the set of their shoulders, the twitch of their hands, the crinkle of their brow. He watched, and he _noticed_.

As a child, it had been a useful skill for sussing out which adults were trustworthy and who might be looking to exploit him. It had kept him safe and relatively well taken-care-of, or at least well enough to escape the place when the opportunity arose. Now, as a man fast approaching 50, a pawnshop owner, an antiquities dealer, and a veritable real-estate mogul in the sleepy town of Storybrooke, Maine, he made his living through observation. It always allowed him to spot a desperate soul, to clinch a deal, to sniff out a person’s weak spots and press on them _just_ hard enough to come out on the better of their deal. However, on occasion, this particular skill afforded him a unique glimpse into things that really ought to have remained out of reach for a man such as him.

He had _noticed_ Belle French.

To be fair (which he rarely was, but who was counting?), Gold would have been hard-pressed to _not_ notice Belle French when she arrived in Storybrooke nearly a year ago. At the very least, he would have noticed her accent – it wasn’t very often that the small, seaside town had foreign visitors, and when the little Australian woman moved into one of the only apartments not owned by him one bright spring morning, she became one of only two expatriates in the entire county (the first, of course, being himself). But more than just the sheer novelty of her presence, he noticed other things about her, as well.

He noticed the kindness in her small, delicate hands, the sweetness in her round cheeks. He noticed the intelligence in the sparkle of her impossibly blue eyes, the wit in the upturned corner of her mouth, the confidence in the swing of her shapely hips. He watched in quiet awe as she slowly, lovingly coaxed the town’s decrepit old library back to its former glory, as the Madame Mayor had hired to do. He stood in the window of his pawnshop and observed the way she filled the building with a steady stream of patrons, from children still strapped into strollers, to harried stay-at-home mothers eager for book club and gossip, to elderly couples on their afternoon stroll, all of them breathing life back into its walls.

He also noticed the sheerness of her blouses and the cascade of her skirts that were always just this side of indecent in their length. He noticed the way her dancer’s legs flexed and stretched in her notoriously high heels, and he noticed the bounce of her thick auburn curls when she laughed. When this happened, he knew that it was time for him to look away before further observations of her perfection made being around her even more impossible than it already was.

But even more fascinating to him than all of those charms, which – truth be told – would ensnare anyone who cared to look, were her _books_.

In the weeks following her arrival in Storybrooke, it soon became apparent that Belle would rarely be seen in public without her nose buried in a book. Whether she was behind the circulation desk at the library, in a back booth at Granny’s Diner with a hamburger and a glass of iced tea, at the Rabbit Hole with Ruby the waitress for a “girl’s night out,” or simply strolling down the sidewalk, she was _reading_. The books appeared to rotate nearly every other day and consisted of every variety imaginable – best-sellers and indie classics, mass circulation copies and first editions, fiction and nonfiction, historical and futuristic, romantic and tragic… He even caught her reading an _almanac_ on a street corner once and nearly burst out laughing then and there. It had taken the other town residents a while to grow accustomed to it; after a month or so of this behavior, the public sentiment became that she was a bit of an odd duck, but generally harmless. She was a librarian who read. A lot, quickly, and in strange places. Nothing terribly disruptive about that.

However, about six months after the advent of Storybrooke’s newest resident, Gold noticed something new. Of all of the hundreds of books that he had seen cradled in her dainty hands as she made her way through his little town, none of them every made a reappearance. That was, except for one.

 _Her Handsome Hero,_ the title on the front cover proclaimed. It was a book of medium thickness, hardbound, the cover wrapped in thin cloth in faded teal and boasting an ornate depiction of a medieval knight in gold embossing. The book had a well-loved look about it – soft, worn edges, the gold adornment fading in some spots, a bit of fraying at the corners. He got the distinct impression that the book was even older than it looked but that it had been meticulously cared for against the ravages of time.

Frankly, Gold was surprised that he had never witnessed anyone ask her about the strange, recurring novel. After all, she received plenty of comments from the townsfolk about how voracious a reader she was, how she always seemed to be utterly absorbed in something new and different. If they were all paying enough attention to notice her books were always changing, should they not also notice the one book that was…not?

For himself, he noticed because it surprised him. He knew Belle to be a woman of depth. He knew she was educated, deeply thoughtful, and opinionated. But this book? Everything from the cloyingly sweet title to the old-fashioned binding to the obnoxious embossing on the cover declared that it was nothing more than an insipid fairytale romance, no doubt fraught with the sort of naïve non-truths that made empty-headed children believe that life would play out just the way it did in songs. Belle was kind and sweet and good, but he had never witnessed anything that would lead him to believe that she was stupid. He simply didn’t understand how such a book could appeal to her.

Gold was accustomed to understanding everything there was to know about a person simply by looking at them, and this book… It was a facet of Belle French that he couldn’t manage to put into a box and file away. And thus began his obsession with it.

 

* * *

 

It was a crisp fall day in early November when he did it.

It was rent day, and as was his custom, Gold spent the morning making the rounds to all of the local businesses who rented his properties collecting their monthly dues in person and in cash. Granny’s diner and bed-and-breakfast was a stop he typically made around 10 AM, and depending on how cooperative the cantankerous old proprietor was feeling that day, he was usually in and out in under 15 minutes. However, when he crossed the threshold into the cozy vintage establishment on that particular collection day and found his favorite little librarian curled up in the back booth – nursing a cup of iced tea, nibbling on a _pain au chocolat_ , and apparently deeply engrossed in _Her Handsome Hero_ – he decided that staying for a cup of coffee couldn’t hurt.

Granny, to his relief, didn’t put up much of a fuss when instead of asking for the rent outright, he leaned his cane against the bar and slid onto one of the vinyl-covered stools. She was far too preoccupied arguing loudly with her ostentatious granddaughter Ruby, an impossibly tall girl with streaks of fire-engine red in her hair, the only waitress Granny employed, and one of Belle’s closest friends. This wasn’t exactly atypical; it was common knowledge that Granny and Ruby’s relationship, though generally loving, was more than a little volatile.

“You’re always so stubborn!” Ruby cried, furiously slicing lemons at the other end of the counter where Gold sat and chucking them into a dangerously full jug of iced tea. “You’re always telling me that you want me to start taking on more responsibilities in this place, but then when I try and tell you my ideas, you _immediately_ shoot them down!”

“Ruby Lucas, I am not _hiring more people_ so we can stay open until _four AM_!” Granny replied as she practically slammed a thick white mug down on the bar in front of him and, still glaring daggers at her granddaughter, poured a measure of coffee into it.

“But _Granny_ , the bar crowd! The Rabbit Hole closes at two – _think_ of how many more customers that would mean! Who _doesn’t_ want eggs and bacon and hash browns at 2:30 in the morning when they’re plastered?”

Gold rolled his eyes and raised his cup to his lips, blowing on the near-boiling liquid with as much delicacy as he could muster with the clunky mug. It wasn’t like Ruby and her grandmother to argue like this in front of customers – it was usually reserved for the sidewalk in the early morning or in hushed tones in the kitchen. But then again, he and Belle were the only ones there at the moment, and while Belle was Ruby’s friend and Granny had essentially adopted her as her own, Gold was merely the landlord. He supposed his presence didn’t really count as “patronage.”

“That’s exactly why I’m not doing it – you think I was my restaurant destroyed in the middle of the night by a bunch of drunks?” Granny said. “I think we have enough property damage to deal with when Leroy’s had a few too many! You think I want half the town in here like that, and at all hours? Guess again, girl!”

“Ughhhhh, you’re impossible!” Ruby declared, throwing the knife she had been working with down on the cutting board and hefting the jug of iced tea off the counter. Striding across the gleaming tile floor, she added over her shoulder, “Fine! If this is the thanks I get for trying to help _OUR_ business grow, then you can just – _whoa_!”

Gold spun around on his stool just in time enough to see Ruby’s alarmingly high heel skid out from under her on the slick flooring. She wobbled precariously, her arms pinwheeling in an attempt to prevent a painful crash to the floor, but nothing that she could have done would have saved theiced tea. By the time the waitress had regained her balance, more than half of the pitcher had come pouring down…and all over Belle.

Belle shrieked in surprise and distress, reflexively shooting to her feet and flinging her beloved novel over her shoulder in a desperate move to get it away from the mess. The book went flying, landing somewhere on the floor several feet down the narrow hallway that led to the restrooms and then the bed and breakfast portion of the property, but Belle herself wasn’t so lucky. The poor girl was soaked, her white blouse and deep crimson skirt stained and dripping, her perfectly-coifed curls falling limp and dark against her shoulders. Gold could see from here the goosebumps that had broken out across her arms, and he tried very desperately _not_ to see what effect the sudden chill was having on the tips of her soft, full breasts, which were now even more prominently on display than usual due to her sodden blouse.

“Oh, no! Belle! Oh, sweetie, I’m so sorry!” Ruby cried as Belle sputtered and spat, dragging her fingers over her face and smearing her mascara down her cheeks. “Oh, no, your shirt! I’m such a klutz! I can’t believe – I wasn’t even thinking - !”

Belle was quick to raise a makeup-stained hand to silence the girl’s fussing, the expression on her face clearly frustrated but not unkind. “It’s fine, Ruby, it’ll wash. Don’t worry – ”

“And your hair! It looked so cute today, too! Oh, Belle, I’m so sorry! Please forgive me!” Ruby continued as if she had not even heard her friend’s protests, looking close to tears in remorse and embarrassment.

“Ruby, really, I said – ”

“Enough!” Granny, it appeared, was joining in the yelling, for while she was behind the counter one moment, the next she was out in the restaurant staring sternly at her granddaughter. “Ruby, take Belle to the laundry room and set her clothes to soak – you’ll be cleaning them for her during your break today. Belle, honey, make sure Ruby gets you something nice of hers to wear. You can come back this evening and pick up your things. I’ll clean up _this_ mess.”

“Granny, honestly, that isn’t necessary, I can just go home and change!” the little librarian insisted.

“I’ll hear nothing more about it. It’s Ruby’s fault you’re in this pickle – she’s going to be the one to fix it for you. Aren’t you, girl?”

Ruby, looking appropriate chastened, looked down at her hands, which had knotted in front of her like a child that had been caught with her fingers in the cookie jar. “Yes, Granny.” Putting her hand on Belle’s sopping shoulder, she guided her out of the booth and in the direction of the bed and breakfast’s laundry facilities. “C’mon, Belle, we’ll get you cleaned up.”

“Miss French.”

Her name was out of Gold’s mouth before he even realized he had spoken, and he felt a wave of embarrassed heat rising up inside him at his own impulsivity. He hoped he didn’t look too foolish when Belle turned to meet his gaze, her eyebrows raised in what looked like pleasant surprise.

“Oh! Mr. Gold! Good morning!” she greeted, her voice shaking but friendly. He could see that she had begun to shiver, the cold tea taking its toll. “I’m sorry I didn’t say hello earlier! I didn’t even notice you come in. Unfortunately, I don’t think I’m really in any st-state to ch-chat at the moment.” She trembled again, her arms wrapping tightly around herself as she smiled wryly. “Wh-what can I do for you?”

The poor girl looked rather like a drowned rat, was frozen to the bone, and still had a smile and a kind word for him.

Without quite knowing what had possessed him to say anything at all, Gold rose to his feet, gathered his cane, and crossed the distance to where she stood with Ruby Lucas, who was eyeing him warily.

“For you face,” he said. He reached into his pocket then and pulled out a soft, well-loved handkerchief, white linen with a touch of rule blue embroidery at the corners. “It appears the tea has gotten the better of your makeup this morning.” Acutely aware of Ruby’s blatant, gaping stare and Granny’s disapproving frown, he handed it to Belle and prayed that his racing pulse and sweating palms weren’t displayed like a neon sign that read, _“I am hopeless for you.”_

Belle’s soft, pink lips parted in surprise, her fingers brushing his as she took the handkerchief. “Th-thank you. That’s so kind, you don’t have to – ”

“Yes, I do,” he interrupted. She startled at that, clearly not sure how to respond, but after a moment, she seemed to accept his assertion and smiled softly, balling the fabric up in her hand and cradling it down by her side.

The silence stretched between them, and Gold had the ridiculous notion that it was a bit like something out of one of her fairytales, although rather than the blushing maiden offering the valiant knight her favor before he went into battle, it was a crippled old man handing an even older scrap of linen to a blushing librarian soaked in tea. Perhaps, had the situation not been so ridiculous, she might have recognized the gesture for the overture that it was, and he couldn’t quite decide how that would make him feel.

It was Granny who finally shattered the moment with her brusque manner and unconcealed censure.  “All right, that’s enough. Go finish your coffee, Gold,” she commanded. “Ruby’s got this handled. I’ll bring you the rent soon as I get this mopped up, and you can be on your way.”

Gold smiled icily at the elderly woman. “Do count it thoroughly. I should hate to have to fine you for being short on the amount again.”

He did, indeed, finish his coffee, although it had gone cold by the time he settled back onto his stool at the counter. Several minutes later, Belle and Ruby emerged from the laundry room, the former’s damp hair piled on top of her head in an effortless bun, her face clean of all makeup, and her petite frame clad in a bright red dress and a cropped black cardigan, apparently the most modest things Ruby owned. Gold tried not to glance her way too frequently as she collected her purse from her booth, which has somehow seemed to avoid the earlier tea deluge, but in spite of his efforts, she approached him just as she was walking toward the door.

“I’m afraid I may have ruined your hanky, Mr. Gold,” she said shyly, showing him the rather sad-looking piece of cloth. It was streaked with peach tones and blush and dark smudges of black that he assumed must have come from her eyes. A lipstick stain colored one corner berry red in a nearly flawless imprint of her mouth, and Gold swallowed convulsively at the thought of her perfect lips pressing there. “I’d be happy to wash it for you, but I’m not sure if all of this will come out. I’m so sorry.”

“Nonsense,” he heard himself saying. “Please. It’s yours. Keep it.”

“Are you sure? At least let me buy you a new one – you were so kind to give it to me, I feel awful!”

“Don’t. I’m…happy I could help.” And he was. Happy. To have _helped_. When did the nasty Mr. Gold ever help anyone?

“Oh… Very well then,” she replied, looking almost…disappointed? “I’ve got to go – I’m already going to be late for story time as it is. Have a good day, Mr. Gold. And…thank you. Again.”

“It was a pleasure, Miss French. Enjoy story time.”

At that, Belle French offered him one final smile and disappeared out into the crisp autumn air.

It didn’t take long after that to obtain the rent from Mrs. Lucas, each and every dollar (and he counted to make certain). As he stood to leave, however, a glint of gold coming from the rear of the restaurant caught his eye.

Belle’s beloved book, _Her Handsome Hero_ , had been left on the floor in the chaos.

Immediately, Gold scanned the restaurant. A couple odd customers had started to filter in, so he was no longer the only one in the room, but both Granny and Ruby appeared to be otherwise occupied in the kitchen. So as casually as he could manage with a limp and a cane, he crossed the room and subtly picked up the book, dusted off its worn cover, and tucked it into the folds of his wool overcoat.

As he walked down the street in the direction of the library, his mind flooded with thoughts of what it would be like to be the one to return the book to her. How would she smile at him, he wondered? Would she shower him with profuse thanks? Would she call him kind again? Perhaps as he handed it to her across the circulation desk in her library, he might be graced once more with the gentle brush of her fingers. It was a heady thought, two smiles, two thanks, two soft touches in one day. Gold was accustomed to two, maybe three run-ins with the lovely little Australian a _week_ , and his dusty old heart had barely been able to withstand _that_ level of sunshine.

He also wondered, however, as he always did, what it was about this particular book that intrigued her so. It clearly meant a great deal to her; it was, after all, the only one in her vast collection that he had ever seen her read again, and not merely twice, but many, many times over. There had to be _something_ about it that she found so captivating that it warranted more study.

Before long, his curiosity got the better of him.

On the sidewalk outside the library, Gold pulled the book in question out of his coat and looked down on it with an appraiser’s eye. His favorite part of his work at the pawnshop had always been the investigation, understanding the items that his clients brought to him, discerning their history, their worth. Forcing himself to separate the book from his mental schema of the things that made up _Belle_ , he gave it a thorough once-over.

It was old, that much was certain, and in fair condition for its age. The fraying on the cloth cover was minimal, there were no signs of dog-eared pages, and the binding seemed solid. A book in this condition would fetch a decent price in his shop, should the right collector come along. Well, that was, if the book was something anyone had ever heard of before. But this title was entirely unknown to him, and there didn’t appear to be an author listed anywhere, which he found bizarre. It would be a risky buy, even for a collector, if no one would be able to identify what it was or who wrote it or when.

It was an oddity, nothing more.

In other words, it was worthless.

But it was _hers_.

And that was the moment he knew that he wouldn’t be returning Belle French’s beloved book to her that day. Swallowing hard against any feelings of guilt that might have begun to well up in his throat, Gold folded the book back into his coat, crossed the street to his shop, and started his day’s work.

 

* * *

 

The next day, he and Belle stood on opposite sides of the main drag of Storybrooke opening their respective workplaces at the same moment. Catching his eye as he turned the key in the front door of the pawnshop, she offered him a wan smile and a small wave. He noticed that she was looking much better than she had the day before; she was back in her own clothes – a crisp white collared blouse tucked into a tweed circle skirt, topped with a thick, soft-looking sweater and belted at her narrow waist – and her hair seemed to have recovered, as well, her chestnut curls pulled back away from her face in a flattering ponytail. Gold nodded to her in acknowledgement, returning her wave with one of his own.

Seemingly taking the gesture as an invitation, however, before he knew quite what was happening, Belle was wrapping her arms around her torso against the chill of the early November morning and crossing the street toward him.

“G’morning, Mr. Gold,” she greeted. Her voice was bright and chipper, but in a way that seemed forced, and the set of her shoulders appeared far tenser than usual and in a way that had nothing to do with the frostbitten air.

He could feel his own brow furrowing as he took in her rigid posture and replied, “Good morning, Miss French. You’ve recovered from that incident yesterday, I assume?”

The smile that tugged at the corners of her mouth shifted slightly from fragile and strained to something softer and more genuine in response to that. “I have, thank you. Even made it back to the library in time for story time. The kids were happy,” she said. “How are you today?”

“Me?” Gold blurted before he could stop himself. Silently kicking himself for his undignified outburst and fighting back a blush, he forced a mildly pleasant expression onto his face and shrugged in a way that he hoped was noncommittal. “It’s a day like any other. I’m as well as I ever am,” he said gruffly and prayed it would be sufficient.

Of course he couldn’t tell her that it was the best morning he had had in ages, now that she had chosen to approach him and ask after his well-being, no matter how out of sorts she seemed to be. After all, she didn’t need to know that there was little he wouldn’t do simply to see her shining face smiling at him. She didn’t need to know that he was convinced that her mere presence could banish every shadow from his dark and twisted heart.

Belle brushed off his rather crotchety response with a wave of her hand, asking instead, “And your shop? How has business been? I’ve been meaning to stop in myself, as a matter of fact. I’ve been told that yours is the place to go when you need to buy something for ‘the person who has everything’.”

 _Ah. So that’s what this is about,_ Gold thought, a bitterness the weight of a stone forming heavily in his throat. _The girl has found herself a beau._

Before he could say something snappish and unkind, however, she continued, “My friend Ariel is the most the difficult person to shop for! Her birthday is next week, and I swear she already has just about every thing-a-ma-bob I could think of.”

He let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding at that and nodded absentmindedly. “Yes, I know the girl. Seems to have quite the eye for whats-its – she’s a frequent customer. You’re welcome to stop by anytime, of course. I’d be happy to show you the things that caught her eye the last time she was in.”

For the first time since he had seen her that morning, Belle’s smile returned to its characteristic beam. “You know, I might just take you up on that! Thank you, Mr. Gold!”

“It’s no matter,” he replied, feeling a rush of heat suffuse his face and neck at being the recipient of that smile. How anyone could manage to not be completely enchanted by her infectious joy at the simplest things was beyond him. “Happy to be of service.”

They continued to chat aimlessly for a few more minutes, but the wind eventually started to pick up, and poor Belle, who hadn’t brought her coat, began to visibly shiver. When he noticed that, and when he was satisfied that the tightness around her eyes and the anxiety in her stance had eased somewhat, he said his good-byes and finally entered the shop, bidding Belle to return to her library.

It was only as she was walking away, back across the street, that Gold realized what had seemed to be so out of sorts about Belle French today.

She wasn’t carrying a book.

 

* * *

 

Their encounter outside his shop proved to be the first of several such chance meetings throughout the remainder of that strange week. Each day, it seemed that Belle would go out of her way to find a new reason to approach him; once more outside his shop, once at the diner, once outside of one of his residential rental properties that required his attention… It seemed that everywhere he turned, there was Belle French, with her bright eyes and her beautiful autumnal dresses and her warm voice peppering him with friendly questions and happy nonsense. It got to the point where Gold had almost become accustomed to the onslaught, and wasn’t that a terrifying notion? He lived in mortal fear that one day she would realize that he really was just a cold, cruel, decrepit old man who had laughably little to offer a woman such as her. What would he do then, when he had finally grown used to such frequent exposure to her perfection?

If that thought alone was not enough to cast a bit of a shadow over their interactions, however, there was something else. It seemed clear to Gold that each day they encountered one another, she had grown even more distraught than she had been the day before. It appeared that their conversations helped with whatever feelings of anxiety she was currently battling, but it was not lost on him the way she fidgeted and paced, the way she chewed on her lips until they grew swollen and bruised, the way she seemed to never know quite what to do with her hands.

And he still hadn’t seen her with another book.

Gold, on the other hand, hadn’t spent this much time with his nose in a book in recent memory. Over the course of that strange and wonderful Belle-filled week, he took to spending the majority of his evenings nestled in his favorite armchair in his study with _Her Handsome Hero_. He was both disappointed and deeply relieved to find that he had perhaps judged the novel too quickly upon his first appraisal of it. It was, in fact, a fairytale, as well as immensely romantic, but it was also an engaging adventure story, full of mystery, intrigue, and more than one daring swordfight.

The heroine, he discovered, was brave and kind and witty in ways that he hadn’t expected of such a book. She was not merely a simpering, spoiled princess, and although she found herself in distress many times throughout the story, she was no fainting damsel. As the unknown author revealed more and more about the character, whose name was Lady Helena, he found himself more and more captivated by her. She bore a striking resemblance to Belle in her passion and her strength and her unwavering goodness, and when he finished the book after only three days, he couldn’t manage to stop himself from turning back to the first page and beginning it again just so he could re-experience his favorite moments of Lady Helena’s.

The hero, on the other hand, was an entirely different story. He seemed to fulfill every stereotype of a storybook champion; he was handsome (as the title had implied), unfailingly brave, and full of valor and strength. He spent most of the story as a very literal interpretation of the “knight in shining armor” trope, but somehow, the author of the book had also managed to cast him as “Prince Charming” by revealing that this seemingly common knight was actually a prince in disguise, seeking honor and glory in a far-off land. Each time he read an eloquent description of the character’s many virtues, Gold felt a little sliver of his heart splinter away and shatter into tiny pieces. For if this book meant such to his darling Belle had she essentially had come to embody the strong, intelligent Lady Helena, then _this_ … _This_ must have been the kind of man that Belle wanted. She wanted a _hero_.

Gold was, perhaps, the farthest thing from a hero a man could be.

 

* * *

 

A week to the day following the fateful tea incident at the diner, Gold perched on a stool in the back of his pawnshop with his jacket laying on the cot he kept there for emergencies, his shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows, and his silk tie removed entirely as he bent over an antique chair. He was in the process of meticulously restoring it to its former glory – it would fetch a hefty price for anyone with a good eye once he finished giving it its final rub-down with fine steel wool and paste wax. He was just about to begin buffing the wax away with a soft cotton rag when the tell-tale jangle of the bells tied to his shop door reached his ears.

“Mr. Gold?”

It was Belle, he realized immediately, and the brittle, slightly wet timbre of her voice told him that she was nearly in tears.

“Just a moment, dearie,” he called out in reply, getting to his feet as quickly as he could and fumbling to wipe his waxy hands on the rag. Once he had his legs under him again and had managed to grab ahold of his cane, he made his way to the front of the shop, shoving the curtain that separated the two spaces a bit more forcefully than was probably necessary.

Belle stood in the center of his cluttered little shop, her sapphire eyes gleaming wetly, her chin trembling, and her dainty little hands wringing uselessly in front of her. Gold felt his heart lodge itself in his throat as he took her in. It was as though every fleeting gesture of distress that he had witnessed in her over the past several days had culminated in this single moment, and Belle looked as though she was ready to fall apart at the seams before his very eyes.

“Belle? What is it? What’s happened? Are you all right?” he quickly demanded. This had gone on long enough. If someone had hurt her, he would not rest until they had been destroyed. One word from her would be all it took, and he would ensure that whoever they were, they were dealt with…ungently.

“Yes, I – ” she began to say, but before she could even finish her sentence, she shook her head violently and corrected herself, “Well, no. No, I don’t think I am, but… Oh, Mr. Gold, you’re going to think me completely ridiculous!”

“Never!” he hissed, his own ferocity taking him somewhat by surprise. “What can I do? Tell me.”

Belle drew her bottom lip between her teeth and nibbled on it anxiously. “It’s just that… You…haven’t happened to have seen one of my books where it doesn’t belong, have you?”

At that moment, Gold could have sworn that he felt his heart cease beating in his chest and his blood run cold within his veins.

The book. The book was the cause of this. Her tears, her shaking, her worry. It all came back to the book.

The book that he taken without her knowledge. The book with which he had absconded away to his pink Victorian lair on the outskirts of town. The book he had been reading and re-reading night after night, searching within its worn pages for pieces of her precious soul that he might keep for his own.

_Her book._

“It’s all right if you haven’t – I wouldn’t really expect you to, honestly, but you were the only other person there the last time I saw it,” she went on to explain, not knowing that he could barely hear her over the sound of his own icy blood rushing in his ears. “I must have left it at the diner after my clothes got ruined that day! I was in such a rush – it completely slipped my mind! I’ve retraced my steps from that day a dozen times, I’ve pestered Ruby and Granny about it to no end, and there’s no sign of it anywhere. I-I’m afraid that someone’s stolen it.”

 _Someone_ has _stolen it, dear heart,_ he thought. _Someone’s hoarded away the only piece of you they could get their hands on like a greedy old dragon, never thinking once of what it might mean for you to lose it._

And then she asked him, “You haven’t seen it, Mr. Gold, have you?” And as the image of its fraying teal cover with its gaudy gold embossing, sitting on his bedside table in his home as though it had been made to sit there, came to his mind, Gold wanted nothing more than to sink down into the guilt that threatened to drown him.

By some miracle, he managed to shake his head no as he listened to his own voice croak some excuse about not having noticed anything odd that day, about having been too absorbed in his rent collecting duties to have given her book another thought. Although he thought it to be a feeble excuse, Belle seemed to accept it well enough, if her somber eyes and nodding head were any indication.

“That’s all right. I’m glad I asked, at least,” she murmured, fighting for a smile and producing something that only managed to look more downtrodden. “You must think I’m such a fool, getting this worked up over a silly book. It’s just that…it was my mother’s, you see. She died, years ago. I remember her reading it to me when I was child. It was always my favorite. It’s one of the only possessions of hers I still have. Well...had.” She paused then to clear her throat, and Gold thought that it might have been kinder if she had simply stabbed him in the heart; it would have done the same amount of damage, and the knife would have been cleaner.

“It just doesn’t make any sense, you know?” she said. “That book was…old and silly and obscure. It wasn’t worth stealing. Who would just… _take_ something like that?”

He could not bring himself to meet her eyes as he replied, “I don’t know.” It was a heinous lie, of course. He _did_ know would who take something like that. It was the same person who, in his heart of hearts, felt the tiniest glow of triumph living right alongside the guilt and the anguish at being the one to cause her such pain. After all, it wasn’t every day that he came to possess something that was worth so very much to her, almost as though he had managed to possess a part of her herself.

He didn’t share this appalling epiphany with her. Instead, he promised to tell her immediately if he heard anything about the book, encouraged her to chin up, and led her to the door.

 

* * *

 

Gold spent that night curled up on his side in bed, staring into the darkness at the book on his nightstand. So much fuss, so much anguish, so much joy over such a little thing. A worthless little thing, and yet, he knew it to be more precious than anything else he possessed. He knew now that in spite of all of the beautiful, painful, cherished insights it had provided into the little librarian’s heart, he could not keep it forever, not if he wanted to keep that heart intact.

 _What would the handsome hero do?_ he wondered. After all, those were the kind of men that Belle admired, right? How would _he_ make this injustice right again? How would _he_ mend the thing that he had destroyed?

After a time, the answer came to him. The handsome hero would conduct himself with honor, he realized. He would confess his crimes. He would beg forgiveness from the one that he had wronged. He would offer himself up to her judgment, and he would not plead for mercy. He would bear his punishment with his shoulders square and his chin raised and his eyes lowered…like a hero.

In the book, Gold recalled, the prince had revealed his true identity to Lady Helena in a hand-written letter, which he had then left on her pillow accompanied by a single red rose. Admittedly, despite his lack of fondness for the character, it had been a heart-wrenching moment, when the prince had laid bare his deception and in doing so broke a sacred vow for the sake of his love for Helena. He had known that he would be punished by those who ruled his kingdom in his stead, and he had known that the revelation would also likely lose him his lady love, who valued nothing more than honesty and integrity. However, as most fairytales tended to do, this one had ended happily, with Lady Helena graciously forgiving him his trickery and declaring her undying love for him.

Perhaps Gold could…

Before he allowed the thought to form fully in his head, or plant any precious seeds of hope in his belly, he was out of bed, in his study, and sat down at his desk, a sheet of heavy white stationary before him and a full fountain pen in his hand.

 _My dearest Belle,_ he began.

 

* * *

 

Just as the sun was beginning to break over the horizon, bathing the frigid seaside town in warm, golden light, Mr. Gold could be seen employing his little-known lock-picking skills to break into the Storybrooke Public Library and leave a single book on the formica surface of the circulation desk. Tucked inside the novel was a letter addressed to its librarian as well as a red, hand-cut rose in full bloom from his own garden.

 

* * *

 

Several hours later found Gold once more in the back room of his pawnshop, attempting and failing to concentrate on the remaining steps in restoring the same antique chair from the day before. He still hadn’t quite managed to wrap his mind around what he had done in the early morning light, the risk he had taken, the things he had confessed. He had never been overly fond of risk. He never took a deal without knowing how it would turn out for him. He never purchased a piece for his shop without knowing that it would sell and for how much. He never opened his mouth unless he knew how his words would be received. And he had blown all of that out the window last night, and all for the sake of a wee little Australian woman who had somehow managed to breathe life back into his blackened, shriveled heart. As he sat on his stool and forced his sweaty palms to methodically swipe the buffing cloth back and forth over the chair, he prayed to whatever deity deigned to listen that it would all be worth it. He could not bear to make himself so vulnerable to anyone but her.

At 10:15 AM on the dot, the jangling of his shop bells announced her imminent arrival.

“Gold!” she cried, the sound of her high heels deafening as she strode forcefully into the sales room. “Mr. Gold, don’t you dare hide from me! I know you’re here! Come out and look me in the eye!”

Swallowing thickly, he rose from his seat and moved to do as she bid.

 _Take it like a hero,_ he repeated to himself. _Do not be afraid. Do not ask for mercy. Take it like a hero._  

When his gaze landed on her, it felt as though he had been struck by lightning. Her presence commanded the entire space, and though she was even smaller than him in stature, in that moment, she could have been a giant. Her hair had been disheveled by the coastal winds, and she made no move to straighten it. Color burned high on her cheeks and stained her creamy skin all the way down her neck and onto her décolletage. Her chest heaved with her breathless panting, and she clutched her beloved book (letter and rose peeking out of the front cover) to her like a shield, as though she would use it to protect herself from him. Her eyes were wild – burning, so bright and so fierce, with confusion and anger and hurt and, he thought, a touch of awe. Her hands were shaking.

She was overwhelmed.

She was overwhelming.

They gazed at each other for a long moment before she finally spoke again. When she did, her voice trembled with some nameless emotion, and it made Gold’s heart pound thickly in his ribcage.

“ _You_ had it? You had it…this _whole time_?”

“Yes. I did,” he rasped, fighting to maintain eye contact with her in the face of her ferocity.

“ _Why?_ ”

He gulped and looked down at his hands as they gripped his cane so hard that his knuckles turned white. “The – the letter – ”

“I _read_ the letter, Gold!” she cried, interrupting him without a second thought. “I want to _hear_ it. I _need_ to hear it.” Her voice, though still trembling, shifted slightly in its tone at that. It became something a bit more hopeful and a bit less devastated but no less overcome, and it seemed to reach deep into Gold’s chest and tug.

And so, in a halting stammer, he told her. “I only wanted…to know you, Belle. You walk around this town with a new book every. Single. Day. And once you finish them, they never show up again. Except that one. That one was different. I noticed. That that one was different. And I knew…it had to mean something to you. It had to be precious in some way. Important. But I couldn’t understand why. Not until I read it. I had to read it to understand.”

“And do you? Understand?” she demanded.

“I…I think so. Belle, this book, it’s like…getting to sneak a glimpse into your soul. You are all over those pages, Belle. You’re in every fucking crevice of it.” He was certain that he wasn’t making an ounce of sense, but he had promised himself that he would be honest with her if nothing else, so even if his words were nonsense, he was going to keep on sharing them with her because they were the most honest words he had ever spoken.

Belle seemed to consider that for a moment, staring hard at him, her eyes sweeping over his body, over his face, as though she were searching for something. Almost mindlessly, he drifted toward her, willing her to see whatever it was that she needed from him.

“And what did you learn from…looking at my soul?” she asked breathlessly. She sounded both eager for and afraid of the answer.

God, what _hadn’t_ he learned? “That your head is just as much in the clouds as everyone thinks it is, but that it’s a good head. That you can’t resist a good romance. That you’re braver and stronger than anyone knows. That you admire justice and heroism and righteousness. That you love heroes.”

His last assertion got her attention, and she quirked an eyebrow at him in response. “I love heroes? Are you sure?”

“Aye,” he replied, nodding shakily at the book still clutched rather defensively in her hands. Of all of the observations into her character that he had just made, he hadn’t imagined that _that_ would be the one she would deny. “ _Her Handsome Hero._ It’s in the bloody title. He’s…the protagonist’s love interest, her other half, her perfect match. And she’s…she’s _you_ , Belle. How could you not want someone like that?”

And then Belle did something that Gold never could have predicted.

She _laughed_.

Gold stood in the middle of his shop, dumbfounded, as Belle French laughed in his face, hard enough to cause her to double over and her cheeks to flush pink and her blue eyes to sparkle with unshed tears. He couldn’t even find it within himself to feel hurt by her response – it was just too bizarre.

“Oh, Mr. Gold,” she panted, “You’ve missed the entire point of the book!”

He stared at her dumbly. “I beg your pardon?”

“Of _course_ the prince is a hero. He’s…chivalrous and brave and strong, and everything he does, he does with honor. He’s…right out of a storybook. But do you know what _else_ he is?” She doesn’t wait for him to answer but simply continues on, her eyes alight with a passion he has never seen in her before. It’s as though she has been waiting her entire life to talk about this and he is simply the first person ever to ask her about it. “He is _cunning_. He saved Lady Helena from the Witch because he outsmarted her. They only lived because he _lied_ to her; it’s the only reason they got away. And he’s _proud_. Didn’t you notice the way he was always strutting around in front of everyone? How he always seemed terribly pleased with himself for no reason at all? And _vicious_! Yes, he spared them in the end, but the way he took down those trolls? Had he not been a knight, they wouldn’t have made it out of that valley alive. But I think my favorite part was that he never _ONCE_ made Lady Helena feel like she was not entirely capable of taking care of herself. He saw that she was a hero in her own right, and he wasn’t threatened by it.”

“Belle…” he whispered, overwhelmed by her zeal. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying that to call the prince a hero is too simple. Lady Helena could never love a man who was merely a hero. She’s a great lady, due to inherit many lands. She has been surrounded by fawning heroes all her life, and what have they ever done for her? What lengths have they gone to to ensure her safety, secure her affections? How many of them have looked at her as an equal? Not one. She needed someone who was… _more_.” Belle closed the distance between them, her eyes boring into his, and he knew that he couldn’t look away if he tried. Something profound was happening between them, something he never could have anticipated or even hoped for, and he wouldn’t dare miss it.

“D’you want to know a secret, Mr. Gold?” she asked, her voice barely murmur, her breath dancing across his chin, his chest, his neck.

“Yes.”

“I’ve been reading this book since I was a child, and it used to be that when I pictured the prince, he was always faceless. I couldn’t have told you the color of his hair or his eyes, or how tall he was or what his voice sounded like. But then… I came here. And suddenly the prince had a face.” Belle glanced down in delicate embarrassment, her long eyelashes casting sooty shadows on her fair cheekbones. “Your face.”

“I’m no hero, Belle,” he warned. His breath was coming faster in his chest, and he felt himself listing forward, as though she had become his center of gravity and he was falling into her orbit with as much grace as he could manage. “I’m not even a good man.”

“You’re right,” Belle agreed. Her free hand, the one not still gripping the book, reached out and caressed his chest through his dress shirt and waistcoat. He could feel the heat of her palm burning through the layers of fabric as though they didn’t even exist, and he was certain that she could feel the hammering of his furious heart beneath his ribs. “You stole from me. You took something that wasn’t yours. You were selfish and unknowingly cruel. And then you brought it back. And you apologized. And you wrote me that beautiful letter and said all those beautiful things about wanting to know me…” she trailed off, losing her breath, seemingly just as overwhelmed as he. “Did you know that roses were my favorite flower, or were you just copying the book?”

“Copying the book, I’m afraid. Though I’m glad to know that. You should see my gardens sometime – roses everywhere.” He didn’t even know what he was saying, but he was going to keep saying it until she stopped touching him and he no longer felt like his very presence on this earth revolved around her hand on his chest.

“You’re not a hero, Mr. Gold. Just like the prince. Just like this book. You’re _more_.”

“Call me Reese.”

And with that, she dropped the book to the floor with a bang, threaded both of her hands into his long, gray-brown hair, and tugged his mouth down to hers.

In the feverish midnight hours, when Gold had allowed himself, even briefly, to think about what it might be like to one day kiss Belle French, he imagined that it would be dainty and soft, a little sip of sunshine, just like her. He imagined that her lips would flutter gently against his, that he would cradle her jaw between his hands and stroke her candy-apple cheeks as he savored her, that he would feel the gentle brush of her sweet-smelling hair against his cheeks. In his imaginings, kissing Belle French would be like walking outside on a warm spring day, just like the day she had moved into Storybrooke and altered his life forever.

He was only half-right.

Belle French was, indeed, soft and sweet and warm, like a spring day. But her kiss was not. Her kiss was hot, hungry, and wet, and Gold felt a ruined sound being ripped from his chest at the sensation of her slick, pink tongue dancing along the seam of his lips while she dragged her fingers along his sensitive scalp. He allowed her entrance immediately (not that he could have held her at bay, even if he had wanted to), and just like that, it felt like she was _everywhere,_ like she would just as soon devour him as kiss him, like he was the only one who could slake her thirst. She was persistent, far more forceful than he thought she would be, and for the first few moments, he could do nothing but submit to her and let her take whatever she would from him.

After a while, the onslaught subsided, Gold was able to participate a bit more actively in the kiss, and he wasn’t about to let such an opportunity pass him by. Tossing his cane to the floor to join the book, he wrapped both of his arms around her and pulled her body against his, pressing inward and up on the small of her back with one hand and cradling the space between her shoulder blades with the other. The effect brought the apex of her thighs against his and pressed her breasts to his chest, and he immediately felt his knees begin to tremble when he sensed the hardening tips of her nipples brushing against him there. His tongue slid demandingly along her own, and Belle _moaned_ in response, the sound shooting straight to his groin.

“ _Reese_ ,” she gasped, breaking their kiss to gulp some much-needed air. He could hear himself growl in response, grinding his hips once against hers before leaving a trail of hot, open-mouthed kisses down her jaw and neck. His name sounded incredible on her lips. When was the last time anyone had called him by his given name? And _god_ , she smelled incredible. Like lavender and vanilla, at once both comforting and tantalizing. Would he ever get enough of her? He didn’t think it possible.

Innumerable minutes passed as Mr. Gold the pawnshop owner and Belle French the librarian went at each other like teenagers in the back of a movie theater right in the middle of the former’s shop, the open sign still on display, the blinding daylight pouring in the front windows. An infinite number of kisses were exchanged, hands explored, and sighs were drawn out into the dusty shop air by the successful efforts of both parties. Eventually, however, it became obvious that nothing more than some delicious heavy necking would be happening that day; Gold’s ankle had begun to protest mightily, Belle’s neck had started to ache, and they both became painfully aware that they had somewhat of an audience when David Nolan walked passed the shop and chose to bang on the window long enough to give them both a shit-eating grin and a big thumbs-up before moving on.

However, it was also obvious that they were both loathe to let go of the other now that they had somehow, miraculously, ended up in each other’s arms. And so for a long while, they contented themselves with simply holding one another, each of them banking their fires for other day.

“I still can’t believe you stole my book,” Belle murmured against Gold’s neck, dropping a trail of soft, gentle kisses from behind his ear to his adam’s apple. “The nerve of you.”

“I’d have done worse if I knew that this would be the result,” he replied shamelessly. Her attentions on his neck made him feel like an overgrown housecat stretched out in the sunlight. It was luxurious and indulgent, and he couldn’t have been more pleased.

And if his is what he felt like _now_ , he couldn’t imagine what he might feel like if they had gotten up to… _more_. A thrill tripped down his spine at the thought, and he wrapped his arms around his lady love a bit tighter.

Belle chuckled warmly, deeply, and buried her forehead against his clavicle. Taking a deep breath of his masculine scent, she murmured, “Oooh. My hero.”

**Author's Note:**

> I think I may leave this fic open for prompting. I had originally considered writing a smutty epilogue to all of this, but to be completely honest, I sort of ran out of time, and I was pretty pleased with how the story ended even sans smut. But if that is something anyone would be interested in seeing, let me know! 
> 
> Thanks so much for reading!


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